


《Flyleaf》

by Flames_of_Madness



Series: Open Book [2]
Category: Merlin (TV), Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters - Daniel Kraus & Guillermo del Toro
Genre: Crossover, Gen, tales of arcadia - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23889337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_of_Madness/pseuds/Flames_of_Madness
Summary: "The darkest parts of people reside within their soul."With the death of Arthur Pendragon came the fall of Camelot. It had been with the completion of the Eclipse armour that the Trollhunters fell to shambles. Esmerion must fight to keep Jim alive, but that grows difficult when his own sanity is against him. He wants the boy and his friends safe, and yet a siren sings to him from across the water. Whether Freya is calling him from the depths or his mind is toying with him, he does not know. Everything is at stake and deception is a common hand of cards in this dangerous game. Simple words cannot solve this riddle and secrets shall be spilt if he does not tread carefully.You can never touch, nor will you see, but soon broken it will be.
Relationships: Barbara Lake/Walter Strickler | Stricklander, Draal (Tales of Arcadia)/Original Character(s), Jim Lake Jr./Claire Nuñez
Series: Open Book [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665526
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

_"Humanity is plagued by darkness and sin."_

Chilling darkness seeps through his bones. The runes on his hand burn like ice, blistering in scarlet red. Unlike the boy, he is aware of this.

His mouth is open in a silent cry, a plea for mercy. Glassy tears slip from the edges of his dulling amber eyes.

_"Don't touch the darkness."_

_"He will claw out your heart."_

_"Your soul will cease."_

Memories, lessons, and reminders swirl within his mind. Everything he has been taught, all the knowledge he has given. This is forbidden. This is suicide.

And yet he could not allow the boy to go. To wander alone in festering lands beyond the Bridge. For all the logic in the world, his compassion overrode it.

He loves his brother far to much to abandon him in a place he does not know. He cannot bring himself to forget the boy as the world forgot him.

So they float together in the endless expanse between two places, lost in the fears of their own minds. The darkness has never been kind and it will never forgive.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Bow before the unwavering strength of the shadows."_

"Give it back!"

The youth pulls his legs up from the low-hanging branch, tucking them close to his body as he watches the two boys run back and forth between the trees. A sharp smile graces his lips, an expression bearing amusement and consideration.

"Will!" One of the boys, a raven-haired lad, cries out in annoyance. 

"You'll have to catch me first!" The other laughs gleefully, holding up the red necktie as he runs backward.

Esmerion grins, choosing to swing down from his perch up-high and rest upon the oaken trunk as the duo unwittingly approach. He crosses his arms and lightly kicks the roots of the tree with his boot, warm amber eyes gazing over the two.

Will comes speeding through the small grove of trees, laughing merrily as his golden locks bounce about on top his head. Behind him is his friend, red faced and put out by the game of cat and mouse.

The young child then trips over the roots of a shrub and tumbles to the ground with a yelp. The necktie falls from his grasp and lands by the youth's feet, stark in contrast to the vibrant greens of the woods. It doesn't belong to him, but he picks it up anyways, studying the frayed edges of the item.

"Are you all—hey!" The raven-haired boy stands rooted to his spot, accusation firm in his gaze. "That's mine!"

"Is it now?" Esmerion drawls, eyes lazily flickering down to the scabby-kneed lad. "I wouldn't 'ave known."

"Give it back!" Will now stands, unbothered by the grazes on his legs. 

The youth hums thoughtfully, tossing the necktie in the air before catching it in his hand, "I could. But then again, I could not."

He grins wickedly as the blond steps forward threateningly—well, as threateningly as an eight-year-old can manage—with a chubby face like thunder. Such a lad might make a squirrel tremble in its skin. Not so much a wanderer, however.

"I propose a deal," he draws a quick snap of power into his voice, silencing whatever quarrels the boys might have. "I shall return yer belongin' if ye give me somethin' in return."

"What do you want?" Will asks cautiously, keeping his friend behind him.

The youth's eyes snap to him, scrutinizing his features with a predatory gaze. "A name," He speaks slowly, as though unsure of himself. "And an answer."

"We can't tell you our names," the raven-haired boy says quietly.

Esmerion looks at him in bemusement, unsure in his motives.

"You'll take us," the blond gives him a dubious expression. "That's what the grown-ups say."

He snorts loudly, bellowing laughter from the boy's words. It startles the children with its echoing nature, sharing wary glances with each other.

"I am not a Fae," he finally manages, grinning down at the two. "If I were, I wouldn't be able to say as such, for it woulda been a lie."

The raven-haired boy tilts his head curiously, slowly walking forward to study the oddity of a person. There's a golden glint in his blue eyes, a hidden gem in an ocean's waters.

"Come now," Esmerion smiles, crouching in front of them with the necktie hanging from his fingertips. "I just want yer name, young warlock."

His eyes widen in fear and he's dragged back behind Will in the horror that someone knows. He trembles in his boots, supported only by the hand of his best friend. They were so careful, how can anybody know?

"It is not in me interests to frighten ye," the youth's voice drops into a soft tone. "Just tell me yer name and answer me somethin', an' I'll give this back to ye."

"Don't tell him!" Will orders the lad, eyes burning with what might be ire. "They'll hunt you down!"

Esmerion shakes his head, "Ye are a feisty one, aren't ye? Do not fret, I only bite those that wield a whip."

"Merlin!"

A sly grin teases the youth's lips at the child's slip-up, his eyes narrowing on the terrified boy, " _Merlin_. What a fitting name for one so free."

The lad gulps, eyes flashing gold for a swift moment. He grins wider as the necktie in his hand struggles to be released from his tight grip.

"Now, just answer me one thin'." Esmerion quells the unspoken spell with a breath of air. "What 'as a golden 'ead, a golden tail, yet 'as no body?"

The children frown, though clearly scared beyond their wits' end and lost to all reason that tells them to run. But Will isn't thinking of an answer to the youth's riddle, he's frantically planning a way out of the wolf's dripping maw. Merlin, however, his mind is spinning much faster than usual, his belief being that once the question is answered, they will be free.

He smirks wolfishly, baring his sharp canines to the duo. Truly, there is not a fleeting thought of inflicting harm of any sort within his mind, but he cannot be at fault for his own nature.

"A..." Merlin hesitates, a frown deeply etched in his features, "...a coin?"

Esmerion flashes him a prideful grin full of uncharted possibilities, one that makes it appear as though his eyes are glowing in the filtered sunlight of the woods. "Very good, Merlin," he praises, dropping the necktie in the boy's hands as he stands. "Do well to remember it."

Then he turns, wading through the thick ferns of the underbrush without so much as a whispered breath. It is only when the two children realize that they can no longer see his figure that they begin to wonder whether they had actually seen him at all. A figment of their imagination; the forgotten myth of the woods.


	3. Chapter 3

_"In the end, all hope is lost. It is consumed by the shadows."_

The cavern quakes with the sound of a distant roar, rousing the youth from his temporal musings. He frowns, looking up at the raining pebbles as they fall from the ceiling with clouds of dust. His cool teal eyes blink in irritation, an expression of worry overcoming his features as he senses one of his extension sentries be extinguished.

He swears under his breath, clambering to his feet to shove a loose boulder back in place. If Jim keeps doing this there's going to be nothing left of their little hideaway but a pile of rubble. If only the boy would tell him before going off on a scavenging trip.

Esmerion pauses as the cavern stops shaking, a resigned sigh leaving his lips as he slumps against the rock wall. He wants to cry out, or strike something as hard as he can; he hasn't decided yet. Even if it brings all the Gumm-Gumms swarming in their hundreds, he wants to scream until his lungs give out.

 _'Blast the Tumberic Stones,'_ he wants to cry. _'Blast the Amulet.'_

He pounds his fists into the wall, unaware and uncaring of the damage it's causing him, even as blood starts to paint the rock. It does not matter to him whether he harms himself or not.

 _'Blast Merlin and Arthur and Gwen and Gaius and all the Knights at the Table.'_ He bites his hand, muffling a scream that might have brought the ceiling down upon him. The taste of bitter iron fills his mouth, staining his teeth a grim rust red. The youth grimaces, retracting his hand from where it resides. The disturbing sight of torn flesh greets his hesitant gaze, ripped open by his own lack of restraint.

 _"Merde,"_ he mutters, recalling the word from an old friend. "That was beyond daft, Ez."

"What was beyond daft?"

Esmerion jumps in surprise, stumbling to the back of the cave, _"Foutre!"_

"Chill, Ty--" Jim clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. "I brought food?"

He scowls at his foster-brother, only shifting to make himself comfortable on the cave floor. The youth pulls a strip of bandage from his pocket, at least, what tattered remains are left of the once unscathed fabric that he had been wearing when they came through. Tenderly, he wraps it around his hand, hissing quietly in irritation of the frayed ends.

"Woah, what did you do?" Jim carefully places his sack on the ground and hops over the fire pit. "How did you manage to do that?"

Esmerion barely withholds from snarling at the boy, and instead settles for glaring at the ash in the pit as though it ate his burrito. He gnaws on his lip as he contemplates his behaviour.

"Esmerion," the boy scorns, taking his brother's hand and continues dressing the wound as best he can. "You can't ignore me forever."

He sighs in defeat, eyes flickering up to meet Jim's. It's saddening to watch the Trollhunter flinch at the sight of his discoloured irises, especially since he can't bring himself to meet the gaze. 

"Do ye know why I meditate, Jim?" He asks quietly in an almost vulnerable voice.

Jim shakes his head, eyes focused on Esmerion's hand.

"It keeps me magic in check." He glances over at the dead logs in the pit. They burst into flames, "An' since the sentries are an extension of meself an' me senses, it allows me to keep the sentries alight without strainin' what little magic I can control."

The boy drops his hand, eyes wide as shock reflects within them, "You can't control your magic?!"

Esmerion swears silently for his poor explanation, "I can control it, Jim," he assures, wracking his mind for the right words. "It's just that... the Darklands contains magic that is... the opposite to me own. It is drainin' to withhold magic in a place that rejects it."

Jim hums in understanding, though clearly quite unbelieving of the youth's words. But he says no more, tending only to the full sack of--whatever that is.

His foster-brother watches without a word, grimacing as he recognizes the scavenged food items in the sack. Brilliant. Who doesn't love Beast egg? Everyone, that's who.

Seeing that the boy seems to be having difficulty with the fire pit, Esmerion waves his good hand in his general direction. Blue flames flicker into existence, startling Jim into falling backwards. He narrowly misses landing on the bag of eggs.

"Warning would be appreciated," he snarks, standing up again as he grabs the small shield they use for cooking.

The youth snorts, turning his head away. It's hard resisting the urge to say something he doesn't mean. Draining to force himself into doing what he intends and wants instead of the opposite.

Jim scowls at his new behaviour, cracking one of the large eggs into the shield. But quickly scrunches his nose at the rotten smell it releases and gags, hiding his nose in his arm.

He can't understand this new... Esmerion. He's well aware that Tyler was just a name for him to be called by, but he acts so different now. The youth is always serious and the wondrous sparkle of curiosity has died in his eyes. There's never any jokes to be shared as there used to be and Esmerion just seems _older_. He looks at everything as though he's seen it before and behaves as though someone might suddenly appear and try to lop off his head. Something tells Jim that he's experienced that before.

A blundered curse slips from his tongue as he suddenly finds his egg burning. He scrambles to get it off the fire and nearly slops the disgustingly grey meal over the hot coals. In the corner of his eye, he catches Esmerion as he flicks his fingers upward.

The 'plate' moves from Jim's fingers and hovers in the air in front of him, saving him from losing his supper. Hesitantly, he takes it from the air and sits down with it on his lap.

Right. There's also the matter that he has magic.

Jim warily watches the unnaturally cold youth while he selects an egg from the bag, carefully setting it between his legs. He cringes in disgust as Esmerion hits the shell with his hand and practically rips away the shards of eggshell from the top. His stomach clenches and he forces himself to focus on his own meal as the youth starts greedily gulping the raw egg.

The crude drawings on the back wall of the cave bring sorrow to his heart, and he adverts his gaze, unable to look at the faces that he misses. So instead, he turns to the map beside him, contemplating the routes and places that would be best to search next.

"Where are you, Enrique?" He asks himself in despair, "There's no end to this place."


	4. Chapter 4

_"Patience is a skill learnt through the presence of idiots."_

The raven-haired boy strides through the streets, making an effort to not catch the eyes of any knights that pass him. He certainly appears to shrunk down to size a bit, taking on the look of a child who's been scolded by a parent.

Esmerion's lips quirk a bit as the lad strolls past the group, keeping his head down as he spots the prince. It's almost cute how hard he tries to avoid the inevitable trouble. Nevertheless, the youth keeps a careful eye on him.

Arthur chuckles, turning to face him with arrogance, "How's your knee-walking coming along?"

The youth sighs silently beside the prince, crossing his arms as he rocks on his feet. He remains in the background, silent as ever with an expression of neutral standing. 

When Merlin says nothing, Arthur glances to his buddies with mocking smirk, "Oh, don't run away!"

"From you?"

He sighs in false relief, "Oh, thank God. I thought you were deaf as well as dumb."

"Look, I've told you you're an ass," the boy shakes his head as he turns to him with a quip of sass in his tone, "I just didn't realize you were a royal one."

Esmerion makes a noncommittal noise, side-eyeing Arthur to see his bemused expression. The prince in question knocks his elbow to silence him--this just earns an amused huff.

"Oh, what you gonna do?" Merlin taunts, cheekily sizing up the men around his foe, "Get your daddy's men to protect you?"

Arthur laughs in disbelief of his behaviour, "I could take you apart with one blow."

The raven-like lad eyes him carefully, confidence and cockiness in his eyes, "I could take you apart with less than that."

"You sure?" He raises a brow with amusement and bewilderment, hands on his hips as he judges the significance of this lower-class boy.

Esmerion smirks, shaking his head as the silence stretches. While he has no doubt that he could easily take on Arthur, there is still the matter of outlawed magic and the promise of an un-trialed execution. But this is the reckless warlock that he's watched grow up, and it comes as no surprise when he starts taking off his jacket.

The blokes in the group start laughing, making a big fuss as they reach for the weapons meant for practice work. As they get a little too excited, the youth shoots a dangerous glare at them, urging them to sheath the swords on their belts. Instead, he hands Arthur a simpler weapon; a flail. Significantly easier to use without training and therefore, more fair. However, he does acknowledge the possibility of painful injury.

"Here you go, big man," the prince tosses Merlin the one in his hand, giving him no warning and results in him dropping the weapon.

Esmerion smacks his shoulder, giving the young prince a scornful gaze as unbuckles his weapons belt. It unfortunately has no effect on him and just makes him laugh, cockier than usual with an audience. Not much cockier, but still more than how he typically acts.

"Come on, then," Arthur spins his flail in his hand as he watches Merlin fumble to collect himself, "I warn you, I've been training to kill since birth."

"Wow," he comments snarkily, "And how long have you been training to be a prat?"

The prince blinks at him, unable to quite comprehend the fact the he's being sassed by someone below him, "You can't address me like that."

"I'm sorry," Merlin replies without a flicker of truth in his eyes, "How long have you been training to be a prat, _my lord_?" He bows in mocking compliance, a cheeky grin on his lips.

With disbelief, Arthur glances over to the youth, only mildly disappointed to find that he receives the usual blank look. He had been hoping to get some kind of reaction out of the stoic lad. Oh well.

There's no warning at all for the raven-haired boy, and Arthur violently swings his flail at him. He stumbles backward with a shout and takes off into the market.

Esmerion follows the toil from a safe distance, pleased as he catches the occasional glimmer of gold in the warlock's eyes. He wants his self-appointed charge safe, but using his gifts for casual mischief can be classed as acceptable. At least, in his eyes.

Then, as Arthur trips over a stray coil of rope, the tides of battle change and Merlin suddenly has the advantage. The flail becomes a serious concern as the boy corners him, having nothing on hand to defend himself with.

"Do you want to give up?" Merlin calls, giving the prince one last chance to back out before his pride is wounded, "Do you?"

Arthur stumbles over a bucket and falls against the stone wall, flattening himself in attempt to put more distance between himself and the weapon. But with a glance up at his opponent, he finds him distracted by someone in the gathered crowd. Although mildly curious to whom it might be, he takes the opportunity as presented and grabs the nearest item.

Esmerion steps forward just as the prince beats Merlin with a broom, disapproving of his unnecessary use of violence. Just one hit is enough to teach a lesson if used as he had done, any more is just a display of cruel dominance.

"That's enough," he commands, voice silencing the jeers of the crowd. 

The prince reluctantly drops the broom, glaring at his partner as the accompanying knights lift Merlin from the ground. He raises a hand to them, ordering that they stop as he addresses the boy, "He may be an idiot, but he's a brave one."

Using the moment as he can, Esmerion helps support him, slinging his arm around his own shoulders. Merlin tries resisting but finds that the youth is very adamant in assisting.

"There's something about you, Merlin," Arthur says, eyeing the warlock carefully. "I can't quite put my finger on it."

The youth frowns at the prince, watching him as he struts off with his group again. With him goes the crowd and the Court Physician comes over in a huff.

"It's quite all right, Gaius," Esmerion says, helping Merlin walk back to the castle, "Arthur 'ad no business in doin' what 'e did."

The boy looks at him in confused bewilderment, opening his mouth to ask something, only for it to die in his throat. He smirks to himself while he receives an expression of realisation from Merlin and one of unmasked confusion from Gaius.

"A gold coin," he eventually says as they arrive at the physician's chambers. 

Esmerion winks at him, carefully releasing him so he leans against the wall, "Ye did yerself well, warlock. Now just keep yerself alive."

Gaius tries to intervene in the youth's path, but blinks as he raises a blazing finger to his lips. And then he's gone as quick as the wind, not a trace of the flames that once decorated him.


	5. Chapter 5

_"You never know what kind of hell is waiting for you, so you might as well give up now."_

Waking up gripped by terror and a hand over your mouth is not ideal. Esmerion's first instinct is to bite down as hard as he can on the unsuspecting victim's muffling appendage. Something cracks.

The hand flies from his mouth in less than an instant, accompanied by a cry of pain.

Instinctively, Esmerion scrambles away from the attacker, hitting his head on the cave wall. He groans, curling up with his head cradled between his palms. He does his best to ignore the warm fluid trickling through his fingers.

"Why'd you do that?!"

Esmerion whimpers quietly, scrunching his eyes shut as he tries to focus.

"Esmerion," he vaguely recognizes the voice as Jim's, "You didn't need to go and bite me."

He cowers in his little ball, whining and whimpering pathetically. His nails start digging into his scalp as his hands tremble.

"Esmerion?"

The youth just curls up tighter, forcing his brain to focus. He doesn't want to remember, but he must. For the Goddess' name, he must.

"Hey, Ez?" Jim tries, his wounded hand held to his chest as he cautiously reaches out to his foster-brother, "Everything's going to be all right."

Esmerion shakes his head, biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed. His blood has a silver shimmer to it.

He's horrified by his nightmare. He hasn't had one like that for quite some time; centuries even. But they're never good. The last one he can remember was just before... He shakes his head vigorously. That's not going to happen. Not this time.

He focuses so hard that he can feel his magic begin to flare around him, crawling with steps like flame, and flickering with cold blue light. His eyes glow with freezing tone, making Jim back away in confusion and fear. Small cracks splinter like spider webs in the stone below him, dull trails of light following their rigid paths.

Esmerion can see it. He can sense it again. He fears it more than anything but it must happen. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. An end to this cruel darkness.

His magic returns to him so suddenly that Jim jumps backwards in alarm, startled by the sudden lack of light and sound. Esmerion stands, snatching a stone from beside him and throwing it at Jim's carefully drawn map, sending a burst of blue magic that erases it from existence.

"What are you doing?" Jim cries, leaping to his feet to stop the youth from causing anymore damage to his hard work, "I spent ages on that!"

 _"Sàmhchair, amadan,"_ Esmerion hisses chillingly, and Jim immediately recognizes that something's severely wrong. "Prepare yerself an' wait. There are others."

The boy stiffens, fear in his eyes, not only for the knowledge of being found out but for the sudden and gravely tone that his brother's voice has taken on. This isn't the person he has come to love and trust. This is someone new and unwelcome.

 _"A-nis!"_ He snarls, whipping around to glower at the young Trollhunter, the feral glint in his eyes urging Jim to jump into action.

Esmerion inhales slowly, eyes closed as he calms himself. There is no reason to get snippy with the boy. But they really must get moving.

 _"Oh, bhràthair, dè a dh'fheumas mi a dhèanamh?"_ He mutters softly to himself, clasping his hand over the golden crest of his chain mail. "No matter, I must be swift."

If Jim is surprised by this, he does not show it. He has grown reluctantly used to the youth's private whispers of nonsense. It is something he has done only in this cursed place. If only his foster-brother had stayed put and not chosen to meddle in affairs that do not belong to him.

Esmerion's attention draws away from the child, his fingers twitching slightly as another stone lifts into his palm. His eyes narrow on the now blank section of rock wall and he raises his arm, lining up where he wishes to begin.

Jim cringes, gritting his teeth as the awful sound grates on his ears, sharp and rigid like nails on a chalkboard. He glances over his shoulder at the youth, finding him scraping a figure into the stone.

His eyes grow misty, his gaze distant as his hand draws the oh, so familiar person from his ancient memory. This will be his mark. His signature. His _'come and find me'_.

Their ragged old coat, the mop of raven black hair, the red neckerchief. But they are not his purpose. No. It is the warlock's surroundings; the unrivaled cavern that he looks out upon, even with the torch in his hand he could never see the walls of it.

It is the grand figure in front of him. The all-knowing and amused smirk that always detailed their face. The serpentine intelligence in their eyes.

" _Kilgharrah_."


	6. Chapter 6

_"Darkness festers in the hearts of many; all it takes is one powerful enough to twist it to their will."_

It is with a small breath of air and the crunch of stone beneath boots that a dark figure takes a seat on the ledge of the crevasse, glancing about almost carelessly as they sit. Sharp features hide beneath the sheltered darkness of their cloak, twisting easily into something reminiscent as they drag their nails through the loose soil.

"'E has changed very little," a near silent voice speaks, belonging to the figure himself. "But 'e 'as grown beyond the boundaries of others."

He grows quiet as a whistling breath of air gusts up from the broken crack in earth's crust. His mind strays cautiously to days long past as he listens for the words spoken to him.

"Not to worry, 'e knows me only by the name of Tyler." He leans over the ravine and chuckles softly when he receives no reply. "Too modern for ye?"

A powerful blast of hot wind hits him square in the chest, blowing back his scraggly hair. He does nothing but blink to clear his eyes of the clouds of dust, his lips curling unnaturally into a grimace.

"There was no need for that," he says calmly, looking down at his hand as his fingers find a small stone. He feels like a child being scolded, being chastised for the few words he has chosen to speak. "I know very well what it is that I do."

There is a moment of silence, and he grows uncomfortable as it stretches. He has done what was required of him, so why the scolding? Too many years among humans makes one act as they do, and he has spent longer than any of his kind would dare. But Merlin needs someone to look to when things grow dark, and he must be there when that happens.

A voice speaks, making stones tremble and pebbles fall as it echoes shallowly off the ravine walls, "You have forgotten that our Destinies are intertwined like ivy on an oak."

"That tends to 'appen when ye lack the Gift of Sight," he drawls, eyes drawn up to the starless night. "We do not all share a single vision."

"Nor can we verge from our Destiny," the voice chuckles lowly, mockingly amused. "Yes, I remember. You never fall far from your past self."

The male finds himself unnerved by the speaker's tone, a feral grimace taking a hold of his features. His hands clench around the stone in his lap, knuckles growing white. "I am no different than I was."

A dampening chill enters the air with the next sound, his hot breath turned to a cloud of frost. The growl of laughter chills his bones, hollowing out his marrow to make way for slivers of ice. It takes every ounce of willpower he has to not lash out with his own strength, to battle against the invisible force that oozes from the cavern. He clenches his jaw and grinds his teeth, claw-like nails piercing the calloused flesh of his palm as he releases a slow breath and allows his core to warm his being.

"You refuse to accept that you are entirely changed," the voice muses. "You do not speak, nor do you act, as you once did."

"Perhaps," he speaks slowly, eyes half-lidded as he ponders. "But I made me decision. I must be here, I must remain. It is no longer a matter of guidance, but of necessity."

The voice lowers, both amused and disdained, "You have woven yourself into both their lives. I do not think that was wise."

"To the crows with wise," he growls, his features cut in a frown. "How long will it be until they trust one another without somethin' in common? The earth would crumble before they learnt. While Destiny is a delicate thin', they still need assistance in the issues of the present."

"If that is what you believe to be your duty," the voice hesitates, pausing as the speaker sighs. "Very well. I will not intervene."

He looses a small breath of relief, bringing one of his knees to his chest. The air is tense and thick, a barrier he wishes did not exist. Things are not as they once were, and it is devastating to be consciously aware of it. Destiny has not been kind to anyone in this time, and he desperately wishes that it had chosen to place its weight on the shoulders of someone else.

"Time 'as not been kind to either of us, Kilgharrah," he sighs, eyes downcast as he raises a hand. His fingers alight with gentle tongues of flame. "There are many things that I wish, but I beg more than anything for life to return as it were."

"No-one can run from their Destiny," the voice crows. "Lest the world crumble."

"I am aware."

Silence grows like the approaching stormclouds that boil in the distant night sky. He cannot help but feel as though he is lying to himself. Many times, his mind has strayed to fleeing the city of Camelot, to abandoning all there is. Humanity has influenced him far too much in these past decades, unknowingly hollowing out who had once been and replacing the emptiness with curiosity and apathy with empathy. 

He had once been detached, distanced from the growing world of men. But now? Now he's left with this retched accent and a sense of duty. So much has changed these recent years, and he has little left of his former self.

"Say not a word of me purpose," he says sternly, getting to his feet. "'E cannot know. Not yet."

"I have no intention of doing so. However," the Great Dragon warns, "if he is to figure out your placement, I will do nothing to turn his head."

"I understand." He sweeps his cloak behind him, words almost lost to the thundering sky.

"And, Esmerion," the figure pauses, ears pricked to listen, "mind that you do not lose yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild warning: while I know most of you won't blink an eye but I just want you to know that the upcoming chapters have described blood and gore. It might get a tad out of hand. Just thought you ought to know.


	7. Chapter 7

_"All it takes is a slight push."_

Esmerion curses beneath his ragged breath, his head growing heavy as he stumbles after Jim. He should not be struggling to keep pace with the Trollhunter, he should be miles ahead by now.

Oh, and of course. Jim is Destined to always fall where he shouldn't. Like right now, as he slips on a rock and takes a tumble off the cliff's ledge.

A forgotten curse rolls off the youth's tongue, and he leaps off the platform to join the Trollhunter, digging his fingers into cracks in the stone to slow his descent. He cares little for the shimmering scarlet blood flowing down his arms. 

Before his feet hit the ground, he kicks off the pillar of stone and lands awkwardly beside the Lake boy. He scowls, wrinkling his nose at the Trollhunter as he weakly gets to his feet, groaning in pain.

Jim leans on him for support, and it takes all of his will not to rip his arm from the boy's grip. But he's more occupied by the sight in front of them.

Hundreds of baskets hang from chains, gently rocking as Goblins tend to what lays inside each one, their cooing voices haunting the chilling silence. It's not difficult to recognise what they're looking at. Delighted and sleepy giggles bounce off the cavern walls, ringing in the youth's ears as he observes from afar.

"Oh. Wow. The nursery."

Esmerion shoots the boy a scolding look, on that goes unseen.

"That's a lot of babies," he continues, missing the growl of annoyance from his partner.

Jim stumbles as the youth suddenly springs away from him, leaping in full faith onto the nearest hanging crib. He watches in surprise and a little awe as Esmerion pauses to softly coo at the baby inside, making sure that they don't burst into tears. There's a gentle glow to his eyes, warm with adoration for the child. And then it's gone as he turns away and leaps to the next crib.

"Trollhunter," he calls quietly, his voice low. "Get movin'!"

He turns his head as Jim scrambles to follow suit, grumbling sourly. They shouldn't be doing this. They shouldn't be trying to get one child out without rescuing all of the others. Risking not only their lives, but their souls as well for a single child? Not worth it if they cannot bring the others.

"Eloise Stemhower," he hears Jim mutter. "Born eighteen ninety-four. Jeez, what are they _feeding_ you guys?"

"Dark curses," Esmerion answers his question, face dark. "I cannot recognise the specifics, but it is far too strong for a mere child."

Another thought crosses his mind but he does not vocalize it. Where in hell's seven circles are they getting the milk?

His thoughts are interrupted by a small cry and he snaps his attention over to the Trollhunter, panicking in silence as he watches him fumble to place the bottle back in the child's mouth. A happy gurgle leaves the baby when he succeeds and they both let out a breath of relief.

"It's okay..." He searches for the name plaque. "Waltolomew Strickler. You're the real Walter Strickler? You're so _small!_ "

"Trollhunter," the youth calls, hanging precariously from the bottom of a crib. "Now is not the time."

Jim glances at him in confusion, not understanding why he doesn't just use his name. But he nods, and smilingly returns the baby his bottle when he drops it. He then jumps to the next crib, a soft smile still on his lips as he looks down at the plaque.

"Enrique," he pipes softly, wearily looking down at the tiny child. "I know a girl who has been _dying_ to see you."

Esmerion scowls at him as he scoops up the baby and his blankets, feeling his ears twitch ever so slightly at the sound of something foreign. His grip on the hanging chain tightens.

"I'll come back for you," Jim promises. "All of you. I promise."

Esmerion mutters quietly to himself, nimbly swinging over to another cradle without so much as a sound. He forces his limbs to stiffen when a Goblin cries a terrible howl, drawing attention to the now-empty crib. His heart starts to pound.

Then the horrific sound of a bottle hitting the ground echoes through the cavern and hundreds of Goblin heads appear from over top cradles, expressions of fury painting their faces. The youth curses fouler than he would normally dare in front of children as long, green fingers curl around the edge of his resident crib, followed by the ugly face of a nursery Goblin.

It grins for a moment, cruel and snide, only for it to vanish beneath the heeled boot of the youthful warrior. A horrendous sound leaves its vile lips as it topples off the crib, head collapsed inward and half-pulverized.

Clearly, Jim has just dealt with far worse, judging by the empty hanging chain and the prideful look upon his face. However, it falls with the sounds and chantings of hundreds of Goblins crawling down the cavern walls with vengeance in their tiny eyes.

Both males share a curse, the only one that Esmerion finds willing to share, and Jim calls out a frantic warning to his partner. Only it comes a few seconds too late.

"Esmerion!"

The youth cries out in surprise, kicking and biting at the Goblins launching at him. His grip starts slipping and he cries out once more, ripping a Goblin from his back and viciously throwing it at a stone wall. Another replaces its kin, taking to biting into his shoulder where the chain mail falls loose.

Esmerion roars in fury, but nothing can be done. His fingers slip from the chain and he's falling.

_Falling..._

_Falling..._

_Falling..._

Into the abyss.

《《》》

His eyes flutter open and the only thing keeping from groaning in pain is the sight of hundreds of sleeping Trolls scattered around the cavern floor. A chill of dread runs down his spine, sending daggers of sharp agony through his bones.

On second glance--though it does not make things better--the youth comes to recognise the sleeping creatures not as Trolls, but as Changelings. Actually, now that he dwells on it, this makes things significantly worse. Changelings have a better sense of smell, better agility, and remarkably better hearing than Trolls. The only thing they lack is the brute strength, but judging by the creaking aches in his bones, that won't make a difference if they awaken.

The softest of hisses leaves his lips as he forces himself onto his elbow. Blood fills his eyes and thickly coats his hands, leaving dark smears across the ground as he shuffles. He releases a harsh breath, silently cursing with every word in every language he knows as violently as he can. Everything appears in groups of twos or threes, fuzzy and spinning in his vision. He wants to vomit. Unfortunately, that won't help him any.

Shakily, he finds his feet, using all of his power to keep from toppling over onto the nearest Changeling. To his luck, he only steps over the slumbering being, narrowly missing their fragile wing. If he could acknowledge it, he would have grimaced at the thought. But this creates another dilemma: the air around him is thick with the scent of freshly spilt blood, and Changelings can catch onto a blood trail like a shark.

His stomach lurches, and Esmerion claps a bloody hand over his mouth, his face having lost all colour. He stumbles backward, back hitting the cavern wall before he manages to turn away and use the wall to guide him. Then he can't hold it anymore and the bile rushes from his mouth, heaving up the half-digested remains of raw egg. It's only the putrid stench of it that convinces him to crawl away, sure that it'll attract unwanted attention.

He doesn't manage a grimace when his hand becomes slick with the insides of his stomach. The youth just drags himself across the cavern in complete agony, lungs unable to draw a single gasp of air. His chain mail tunic digs into the flesh of his belly, drawing small wounds and forming purple bruises with the constant pressure applied. His long nails are broken and bleeding, split and bent, digging into his flesh with every movement. Agony is not a strong enough word for what he feels.

"Who goes?"

Esmerion might have reacted to the voice if he could hear above the retched ringing of his eardrums and desperate pounding of his heart. Perhaps he would have noted the familiar notes, the quiet waver, maybe even the falsity within. Alas, he cannot see, nor can he hear, and that is his downfall.

A chipped and blunt blade tip finds its place at the back of his neck, forcing the youth to freeze at the chilled touch of metal. If this is to be his death, he deserves nothing better than to rot in the place that he fell out of reach. He failed his duty to protect the Trollhunter. That does not mean he wishes to die.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Rendered deaf and partially blind, he doesn't respond. Only grunts when the pressure of a clawed foot is placed on his back.

"I'll ask again: who are you?"

He tries to shake his head, to ease out the awful pitch of constant ringing, but the blade forbids him from free movement. A pained whine of distress leaves his lips and he taps his fingers as well as he can, wanting the offender to allow him to shift.

"Are you deaf?"

His bloodied fingers scrawl messily on the stone, making out symbols that mean nothing more than nonsense. But it gets the Changeling to move. 

"Huh. Perhaps you are."

Esmerion blinks, shaking his heavy head to finally rid himself of the nuisance of deafness. His head pounds and throbs mercilessly, though he can hear at long last. He wipes his eyes with a hand, only to make his blindness worse as he rubs the unsavoury bile of his stomach in them.

"Well, you look a right mess."

He freezes instantly, his joints locking as his mind registers the voice. It's familiar. He hasn't heard that voice for over a thousand years. Not the slight kindly wisp of breath in their words, nor the commanding tone that controls. He hasn't heard the voice of the King for centuries.

"Arthur," his own voice is small, pathetically weak for who he is. "Arthur Pendragon, Albion's King."

The sound of scurrying footsteps meet his ears, the sign of someone stumbling over themselves in surprise. He doesn't know who he is. He doesn't remember his legacy.

"W-why do you call me that," he stutters, not an ounce of cockiness in his breath. "I'm not a king. I've never even left the Darklands. Who are you?"

"I am Esmerion, my li--" He descends into a coughing fit, spitting blood from his throat onto the ground.

"Are-are you all right?" Arthur sounds quiet, soft-spoken. Like a child. "Are you all right, mister?"

After coughing up what may have been half a lung, Esmerion looks up at him, barely making out his figure through the blood and bile. "I 'ave been... better."

"Uh, here." The youth resists a flinch as something rough touches his eye. "I hope it'll help..."

Indeed, Arthur's assistance does help. Tremendously. Even while his eyes burn more than anything, he can actually see.

Before him stands a scrawny Changeling no taller than perhaps Stricklander's middle; the size of a child. It strikes him suddenly, though he had realized it only moments before--Arthur is a boy, a child that wants nothing to do with war. Even with his glowing red eyes and stony green skin, he looks frightened. With a knotted mane of filthy blond hair tangled between his oversized horns, and tiny fangs sticking out from his lower jaw, he almost cowers under the gaze of the youth. It is a horrible realization, for he knows that the child will have no choice but to partake in bloodbaths.

"'Ow old are ye, Arthur?"

He flinches, eyes flickering nervously. "Don't call me that. _Please_."

"'Aight," Esmerion says softly. "'Ow old are ye?"

"Fifty?" he mumbles, a scowl on his face as he tries to recall. "I think?"

Fifty, Esmerion dwells on the number. That's an awful lot younger than he was thinking previously. To a Changeling, that's barely the equivalent of nine-years of age. To him, that's far less.

"All right," he decides. "I am over a thousand years. I... wish no 'arm upon ye."

The rebirthed Pendragon looks astounded, big eyes widened in his awe. "That's old."

He offers the child a small smile, but it must've made him look like a monster, as Arthur flinched backward. "I suppose it is."

Arthur cautiously sits down in front of him, setting down his too-big sword on his lap. "Why are you here? In the Darklands?"

Esmerion's little cheer diminishes as his lips fall into a frown. "For my...for a friend."

"Where are they?" the child queries with innocent curiosity but snaps his jaw shut with a glance at his scowl. "Sorry..."

He frowns further, looking up at the boy with interest. "Why do ye apologise? Why so kind?"

Arthur flinches, eyes darting downward to his sword. His falls quiet, fiddling with the cracking leather of the grip, mumbling only on occasion.

"Why?" Esmerion asks softly, teal eyes warming slightly. "Why so different?"

"Why not?" his voice cracks slightly. "We're treated like dirt down here. E-especially if you're stunted."

The youth gives him a soft look of sympathy. He can't exactly relate, but he can remember being treated as lesser for simply being the youngest of his siblings. It's haunting to know that Arthur has grown up so differently to his past self.

He perks suddenly, head tilted and eyes clouded. Arthur flicks one of his long ears in confusion before a look of terror crosses his features as he catches on. The cavern walls are echoing with the sound of footsteps, both thunderous and faint.

Esmerion visibly pales, and fear quite evidently flashes in his eyes. He cannot move, he cannot defend himself. He is utterly helpless, vulnerable to the inevitability of his fate.

Arthur starts trembling, eyes brimmed with small tears as he stays rooted to the spot.

"Go, Arthur!" the youth hisses beneath his breath, watching as some of the Changelings start to stir. "Go, before they find ye with me."

His voice startles the child from his terror, making him scramble to his feet in fear. He gives Esmerion a long look, conflict clear within his eyes.

"Jus' be ready, alright?"

He doesn't linger after those words, scampering off to hide in the crevasses of stone. The only thing left to be seen is the dull glow of his red eyes in the endless darkness.

Esmerion spares him a reassuring smile before the broad hand of a Troll grabs him with no remorse. He cries out in agony, waking all the Changelings in the cavern. His voice cracks as he screams, bones cracking and wounds spilling blood onto the ground.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

The boy watches in horror from afar.


	8. Chapter 8

_"Betrayal hurts most when it comes from those closest to our hearts."_

He had been on a stroll when it happened. He had been enjoying the cool night air, a nice change from the stuffy corridors of the castle. He didn't even have any intentions of conversing with the Great Dragon.

But then the ground beneath his feet started to tremble.

A shallow curse flies from his lips, eyes wide and a quiet cheer on the tip of his tongue. He can recognize the tremors not as giant steps, but thunderous wing beats from below.

An uncharacteristic grins spreads across his face as he breaks into a sprint, nimbly scaling the base foundations of Camelot's walls, a towering collection of boulders that does little to slow him. His cloak billows grandly behind him, flapping in the growing wind like the flag of Camelot hoisted above the training grounds.

Esmerion grins truly, sharp canines displayed in his glee and amber eyes glowing with the strength of burning coals. The figure he has longed to see emerges from the ravine, their own eyes not burning, but blazing. Their teeth glisten in the moonlight, bared as they cry out for their freedom.

His smile falters, his eyes dim. He sees no joy in the Great Dragon's expression, only a darkness that has been twisted into cruelty. There is no kind spark, nor glitter of wisdom in his golden eyes. There is nothing left of who he had been.

Kilgharrah catches his eyes, snarling lowly with a cruel curling of his lips before leaping back into the air. Too soon, he is nothing but a small speck in the night sky.

Esmerion is no moron. He is anything but a village dunce. He is aware that the roar he hears is not an exclamation of freedom. It is a call of vengeance. One he had thought was left behind them.

He doesn't dare waste his breath with a curse. The youth turns swiftly to the walls of Camelot, fingers grasping the cracks in the stone. There is little time.

When his feet land on the solid stone of the castle wall, swords and spears are jabbed in his direction, causing him to drop and roll to avoid a chance of being skewered. His hood blows off his head and he stands, arms outstretched to express his disinterest in a scuffle.

"Sound the alarm," he says boldly, eyes glittering in the moonlight. "Get _everyone_ inside."

One of the guards threatens him with the end of his spear, not recognizing the youth in the dark blanket of night. "Who are you to give us orders?"

Esmerion spins to face him, fury and fear clear as day in his expression. There's no mistaking who he is now. The guards catch on very quickly, raising their weapons without a moment's notice and bringing apologies to their tongues.

" _Don't_." He holds up a hand, voice deep and commanding. "Just do as I say an' get every man, woman, and child inside the castle walls."

"We don't foll--"

Esmerion shoots the speaker a deadly glare, holding promises of suffering in his eyes. The guard silences without question and jerks his head to order off the others of the patrol. 

With the group gone, Esmerion only sees it fit to continue his trek. He doesn't bother with the stairs, taking a desperate leap down from the wall. He's lucky that nobody is around to question his survival of the fall, but offers only a brief prayer of thanks to the Goddess as he runs. 

Pure chance brings him to almost knock down Guinevere on his manic sprint through the streets. His typically silver words jumble in his mouth, tongue tying knots as he tries to get his point across to the bewildered woman. He waves his hands in frantic gestures, struggling to communicate what must be said in the short time he has.

"Tyler?" Gwen asks in confusion, hands raised as she tries to calm him down. "What's wrong?"

Esmerion gulps down a breath of air before taking one of her hands in his. "Gwen, I need you to get everyone inside. Right this minute. If anyone asks, tell them it's on my order."

She blinks, her voice rising in pitch as she grows gravely concerned. "What? Why?"

"Just do as I say!" he barks, taking off once again.

He feels nothing but fear for these people, for the people of Camelot. They have no idea what is coming and they will be caught unprepared for the horrors that have yet to come. But he cannot dwell on it, even as he rushes past them, bellowing out warnings at the top of his lungs, for he must reach the castle. He must speak with Uther.

"Halt!" a guard orders him, but he keeps running, drawing his short sword to deflect the iron weapon thrust his way.

Blood roars in his ears, putting the morning calls of ancient dragon nesters to shame. He can barely hear the world around him, and he can barely see it through the sudden blotches of vivid colour in his vision. The few noble people out scatter around him, seeking to avoid the risk of being thrown to the ground. 

He very nearly barrels into Arthur, and only just narrowly misses him by leaning away at the last second. His breaths come in short gasps, though he is not needy for air, and his amber gaze turns to stone as he meets the eyes of the prince.

"What on earth has got into you?" he asks disbelievingly, hands on his hips.

"Sound the alarm," Esmerion warns lowly. "'E will not spare anyone."

"What _are_ you talking about, Tyler?" Arthur looks at him as though the youth is mad. "Who will not spare anyone?"

"The Dragon." There is no strength in his voice when he speaks, only emotionless void. "'E is free."

Arthur's eyes widen and he races off as Esmerion once did, seeking the presence of the king. His footsteps echo like thunderclaps in the empty halls of the castle, disturbing the pressing silence. Surely, he must know there is nothing to be done against the Great Dragon.

But, the youth sighs as he straightens, his priority is his people, not his life.

Esmerion releases a sound of sorrow and agony, soft enough that it goes unheard by any nearby but resounding with the force of an army. He has not felt anything such as this for many years. However, he can have no time for emotions. The kingdom shall burn in flames if he succumbs to them.

He bumps into Merlin in his haste to reach the battlements, his dark gaze startling the boy. He says nothing and presses on, caring little for the servants and nobles that he knocks on his way. There must be something that he can say or do to keep this from happening.

The breeze, he finds, is much too warm for an early summer night. It's dry and deadly, carrying a hidden warning that few can read. It cries gentle words to his ears, unaware that he has already heeded them. The city is silent.

Then a roar shatters the quiet of the night, belonging to one so much larger than himself. The distant shape of a creature in flight grows in size, filtered moonlight glimmering on their scaled hide as he approaches. There's a glow in his chest, orange and warm in colour, yet deathly and cruel in truth.

Screams pierce the air as people recognize the being in the sky, and the terror that fills them changes to agony as the Great Dragon releases a breath of flame over the thatched houses. Homes that once offered safety now offer a promise of agonizing death, alight with wicked flames that eat away at the wooden beams.

 ** _"Giatí to káneis aftó?!"_** Esmerion cries out, standing atop the battlements.

The Dragon regards him with a bellow to rival thunder.

 _ **"To Albion den simaínei típota gia séna?!"**_ he screams desperately, voice cracking as the Dragon flies over the castle. **_"Tha mas misoún ólous!"_**

**_"Tóte tha eínai!"_ **

A hand grasps the youth's cloak and yanks him down from the wall, dragging him inside before a blast of fire can strike him. Arthur curses him, refusing to see the emotionless grief in his glassy eyes as he scolds him. 

He meets Merlin's gaze, a strong and silent understanding in it that grounds him in the moment. Yet there is endless curiosity, fueled by the youth's foreign words shared with the Dragon. But the guilt in his expression gives it all away. He had thought he was doing the right thing.

"'E will end us all," he says lowly, standing to tower both boys. "Camelot will crumble an' 'e alone will rule."

Arthur shares a wary look with Merlin.

"We need help."


	9. Chapter 9

_"Our greatest mistakes always come back to haunt us. One way or another."_

Something feels wrong.

_Drip._

_Drip._

Spinning, spinning. Twisting, turning. Never slowing, never ceasing, ever sickening.

_Drip._

_Drip._

His eyes flutter open and he immediately feels ill. Right is wrong, wrong is right. Up is down, and down is up.

 _Drip_.

 _Drip_.

Colours swim in his vision, blinding him from the suffocating darkness, hiding the pooling scarlet beneath him. His ears roar, echoed by a thin whistle of white noise that deafens him.

 _Drip_.

 _Drip_.

Chilling metal encircles his wrists and ankles, long chains of it knotted and tangled behind him, wrapped so his legs are pulled to his hands. Links hang loosely, their freezing touch clinging to the youth's bloodied and bruised back like leeches.

 _Drip_.

 _Drip_.

Where is he? His outer coverings are gone, leaving him in naked in all but a pair of ragged trousers, and every scratch, scrape, and broken bone has been left unseen to. He can feel the hot blood running rivers down his bare flesh, pooling on his forehead where it falls to the ground in singular drops.

 _Drip_.

 _Drip_.

"Ah! I see you are awake!" 

Esmerion flinches back at the sudden voice, making himself sway on the chain. This small action makes the speaker chuckle with a grating sound, a mocking and cruel laugh. He cannot help but be reminded of a cornered dog, where the person is pelting it with stones for amusement. It brings him no solace to find himself the dog.

"It's been a long time, old friend."

He blinks at the upside down figure, eyes widening and lips parting in horror. The youth shakes his head, though it brings pounding like drums, and stares. It cannot be.

"Ar-Arthur killed ye..." he mutters in disbelief, shaking his head in a constant motion. "Ye were meant to be dead."

"And yet, I still live," they step closer, into the dull, green glow of the crystals that lights up their features. "Quite surprising isn't it?"

"Mordred..." he snarls, curling his lip to reveal his bloodied teeth. "Ye bastard."

The man nods in acknowledgement to this phrase, a cruel smirk on his lips. His blue eyes shine with a coldness that he didn't possess the last time the youth saw him. There is only blazing hatred left in the shell of the boy he once was.

"You know, it's a true shame," Mordred comments slyly, pacing the ground in front of his prisoner. "A real shame that we can't have Emrys here with us."

Esmerion snarls, the bellow echoing throughout the cavern. He displeasure is undeniable, not only rippling in his expression but in the glow of his eyes. The air simmers between them.

"Oh, I do hope you don't mind," Mordred says offhandedly, leaning against a stone table to inspect an item in his pocket. "I chained you with dampeners. Normally wouldn't do much. But with you forcing this appearance and that nasty fall you took in the nursery, it's quite effective."

Another snarl rumbles off the stone walls, rippling vibrations through the earth. It drips with ferocity and unspeakable curses. Surely a sound that should not come from such a silver tongue.

"My, you have quite the temper, don't you?"

Esmerion bites his tongue to keep himself from growling. Ah. And another thing to remember: sharp teeth. _Bushigal_.

"Not as quick-witted as you once were, I'll admit," Mordred hums, placing down the item in his hands. "I wonder..."

The youth stares at him with unease, finding the calculating eyes of the druid just as unsettling as his brother's had been, if not more so. But he can read the look he's receiving, and it is not something he wants to see. No, it scares him.

"You've been human for far too long, old friend." The druid chuckles with cruel humour, dragging his gloved hand across the table. "It's turning you into a mutt."

Something inside Esmerion snaps and he lurches forward with a roar of fury, spittle flying from his lips. Stalactites tremble above them, and crystals clatter with the echoing vocal, rivaling even the great Gunmar the Black. Mordred only laughs, however, not at all bothered by the threatening gesture. 

"No," Mordred corrects himself, circling the chained lad with a gleam in his eyes. "It's turning you into a beast."

Esmerion releases a low rumble of warning, disliking where this happens to be going. The more rational side of him is waning, thinking less and _feeling_ more than it should. This taunting game is driving out his plans and ideas, leaving him defenseless without magic and Mordred knows exactly what he's doing.

"You've never been quite as powerful in this form," the druid notes, picking up a long shaft of metal. "Fire never did much for you, but iron? I recall that your weapons and armor bore a safety enchantment. I certainly remember when Arthur hit your arm with his blade. You played the fool, acting as though your skin wasn't burning."

Something was smoking behind the youth, filling the cavern with putrid air that overwhelms one's senses. The space starts turning a faded grey, darker than fog yet heavier than mist. 

He coughs, trying to clear his lungs of the stench. Every breath he takes grows more painful and he can easily see that his vision is worsening. Under normal circumstances, he'd be completely fine, but his magic has weakened and he cannot think straight enough to drive the smoke from his lungs.

"Now," Mordred begins, "you will tell me where the Bridge is. There will be certain.... consequences if you don't comply. Am I clear?"

Esmerion hisses, spitting a glob of scarlet blood at the sound of the voice. He hears it splatter on the ground, followed by a positively _gleeful_ sound. His scowl deepens, haunted by the noise he cannot understand.

"Oh, but this is fantastic," Mordred claims from somewhere within the thick smoke. "And you... you have no idea!"

Esmerion growls this time, but weakened by the intense spiraling of his desperate thoughts and frantic tugging at his chains, he falls limp. With his eyes half-lidded, he spares the druid a confused look, barely grasping what he is doing. 

Mordred clears his throat, clearly withholding a grin of twisted joy. "Now, I need you to answer the question, Esmerion. Where is the Bridge?"

The youth fails to reply, hanging helplessly from his chains.

He hums, tutting quietly before grabbing Esmerion's bronze hair and yanking his head close to his own face. Esmerion grunts, eyes flickering with cold fire as he's forced to look into the empty soul of the druid. Sweat sheens his paled cheeks.

"Or perhaps you have something to say of Arthur Pendragon?"

The way his muscles tense gives him away before he even puts together a sentence. Mordred grins.

"Ah, so he has returned." He releases his hold on Esmerion and disappears from his line of view. "Where is he?"

The youth snarls warningly, a pathetic threat for someone in his position. He grinds his teeth, swallowing the words on his tongue with some difficulty. 

"Tell me where he is!" Mordred demands. "No?"

Esmerion howls in pain, arching his back to pull away from the blistering heat. Spittle flies from his lips as he gnashes his teeth, eyes wild in agony. The strong scent of charring flesh fills his nose yet he cannot smell it, in far too much pain to even acknowledge it.

When the object is pulled away, Esmerion hangs limply, panting and huffing to regain his breath. His eyes are unfocused, unable to make out the figure of his tormentor.

"Tell me where Arthur Pendragon is." Mordred tries again, voice firmer as he crouches in front of the youth. He draws a thin line across Esmerion's neck with a red hot iron rod as he tries not to scream. 

"Go...to...hell," Esmerion grinds out, gasping in agony.

"I think you'll find that I'm not going anywhere," Mordred sneers harshly. "And neither are you."

He screams, thick blood spewing from his mouth as the iron rod is driven into his shoulder, right above the collarbone. It chars his flesh, blackening the pale skin as it pierces through the other side. Smoke rises from the wound, blistering and scorching as blood pours down his neck.

He chokes on his own fluid, a mixture of shimmering blood and mucus stripped from his insides. Blood fills his eyes, mixing with salty tears of agony.

 _Drip_.

 _Drip_.

The world fades out.

_Drip._

_Drip_.

He'd only hoped to see the sun before the end of his days.

 _Drip_.

 _Drip_.

The beast comes out to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! I finally got around to posting this!  
> Slight warning, this book will be darker than the last. It will get a tad gruesome.


End file.
